


Could Have Been Heroes

by Minka



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, M/M, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>USSR, 1941; The Battle of Moscow rages in the west, Soviet and German troops clashing all along the border.  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>In the east a group of Alliance soldiers find themselves trapped behind enemy lines. As winter sets in, the rasputitsa’s giving way to icy blizzards, they struggle to stay alive.  Battling the cold, sickness, their own inner demons and winters insistent pull towards insanity, they march with a fading hope of survival, each step reaffirming their greatest threat; themselves.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Have Been Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Authors always say ‘write what you know’. I challenge that. I say ‘know what you write’. This is not historically accurate, but I’ve done enough research that it _could be_.

*****  
 **Part I**  
 _With a drop of blood you will take them out, for me._  
*****

Infantry Captain Robb Stark pressed his back against the tree, his breath misting as he panted heavily in the cold air. His gloved hands gripped the steel of his gun, steady and true even as his mind screamed out to be granted the strength to press on.

Theon Greyjoy, Second Lieutenant of their tactical squad was beside him, mirroring his actions as his tongue darted out to lick at his lips quickly. Robb could tell the older man was nervous; they all were. The silence of the battlefield was unnerving. Bodies were cramping, limbs stiff with immobility and cold. Even the knowledge that the German soldiers at their backs were suffering the same fate came as indifferent consolation.

The eerie atmosphere was shattered with the sound of feet, a scream in German and the peppering sound of bullets as the answer. The spray flicked up the snow at Robb’s right as Jon Umber dashed between the trees, scuttling up to share Robb’s shelter. Once there the steel rain halted and silence once again followed.

Both sides were dug in, United Kingdom troops on one and Germans on the other. It was a standstill. Both had good cover, rocks and fallen trees and natural ditches yet neither had anywhere to withdraw. If either side pushed forward towards the other they would be blown away and if either side turned heel in retreat they would be cut down from behind.

They’d been like this for an hour now; so long that even the occasional grenade toss was no longer happening. At first it had been all noise and explosions, the flashes of guns and a rain of bark as each side tried to find weaknesses in the other’s defences. It got them nowhere so both sides turned to grenades. A pull of the pin, a toss of the arm and dirt and snow and tree branches rained down on the opposition. But neither dirt nor snow nor branches were really life threatening and when, after each side had a good old go at the other, there were no pained, dying screams, they both seemed to just give up.

Now it was a matter of mind over a matter and brain over rationality and the fight would go to whoever found a way to either run or attack that wasn’t pure suicide. Robb was drawing blanks on all options and apparently, from the lack of movement from the Germans, they were having the same issues.

What made their situation even more difficult was their wounded. War bonds ran deep, but this group were like brothers and right now one of them was close to deaths door, unable to be moved and yet none of them even entertained the idea of leaving him alone with his fate.

“How’s he holding up?” Robb asked Umber. He didn’t look at the other man, his eyes stayed locked on the distance ahead of him, waiting for a figure to appear. His finger rested on the trigger, ready and unwavering.

“He’s not lastin’,” Jon Umber, the man they called the Greatjon, said, his accent thick as his chest heaved. Robb allowed his eyes to close momentarily, the pain of the death of one of his men lingering as a heavy weight.

The entire day hadn’t gone to plan. It was meant to be a clear cut across fields of snow and lakes turned to ice. It was meant to be easy. No enemies this far across the USSR border.

Instead they had met resistance every step of the way and in one fateful day, their numbers had been cut in half and Robb had found himself in command when Eddard had been shot on the retreat. What had once been a unit of over twenty was down to a handful of boys and unseasoned men and where Robb had once relayed commands he was now the one issuing them.

And beside him, Theon kept asking the very thing that made the day even worse.

“Where the fuck is-”

Robb cut Theon’s question off with a snapped, “I don’t know.” And he didn’t know. Not at all and it was making him anxious. Casting his eyes to the sky, he saw the white glow of the sun behind the heavy snow clouds and felt his heart sink even further. Late. Maybe by two hours.

“We have to go,” Theon pressed. He was a good soldier and a good commander, but he lacked the tactical mind that Robb needed. Theon couldn’t see the dangers in pushing ahead on their own, or even the reason they were stuck cowering behind boulders and not making a frantic dash across the snow.

“We can’t leave the rendezvous point.” It wasn’t what Robb had planned to say, but it was what came out anyway. He would have liked to point out the suicidal implications of them running, or of them turning and taking on the German forces, but his mind was elsewhere, his eyes again looking at the sky and seeking out the sun to gauge the time; just to be sure.

“We can’t hold this damn position either,” Theon reasoned. “They’re trained for this; they can take care of themselves, now we need to do the same for us.”

Umber shook his head, his heavy helmet sliding on his balding head. “You’re both right,” he said, “but the question should be how far are we gonna to get without ‘em?”

A dying scream snapped all three of them out of their argument. Robb’s first thought was that it was Jory, finally giving into the bullet that had carved a hole through his belly earlier in the day. They had left him with Umber and one of the younger recruits, a hulking man more like a bull than a human by the name of Gendry. Between the two of them they had managed to carry Jory, sick and feverish with a wound that stank like rot, while the others provided cover fire.

Jory didn’t have long; Robb knew it. He could tell just by looking at the man, his face pale and his skin shining with sweat even in the cold. It made it worse that there was nothing that they could do. No man got left behind, that was their rule, but the constant moving and then prolonged periods of time spent in the snow wasn’t helping Jory either. They needed to get away from the Germans, get somewhere warm and dry where they could inspect the wound properly. If they couldn’t do that, then Jory would be dead before the day was through and right now, Robb wasn’t of a mind to let that happen, though fucked if he had any idea how to prevent it.

Robb feared the worst at the cry, but no; it came from behind, from the enemy that was bearing down on them. And that knowledge was far better than facing Jory’s death and even better than hearing that the other man would live well into old age. Robb couldn’t help but grin as he rolled in the snow, bringing his rifle up and leaning into the sight. He balanced it on the fallen log. “Cover fire!” he screamed. The order came out before he even saw what was going on, what had caused the deathly scream; in his bones he just knew.

There was a streak of black across the enemy lines, fast and low, quick like a wolf. Robb trailed it with the barrel of his gun, his finger forever at the ready.

That flash of colour leapt over a fallen log, ducked low and disappeared behind a tree. Then there was another scream. Robb saw an arch of blood fly out from behind the trunk and the sound of a body sinking into the snow carried over the field.

Shouts filled the air, German commands to ‘shoot’ and ‘look’ meeting the ears of Robb’s men. To Robb’s left one of the younger men, Pyp, whooped out loud and a gun shot followed. Bark exploded from a tree, the bullet missing its target.

And then that figure was moving again. Sleek and silent, the man was nothing but a blur as he dashed out from behind the tree and jumped on the next unsuspecting soldier from behind. They both tumbled to the ground, gurgling sounds of death following. Only the smudge of dark rose and looped through the trees to the right.

Robb knew something was wrong. He wouldn’t attack like this; not without the others. Out numbered and barely armed, no one was that stupid.

Unless they were desperate.

Robb’s gun tailed the running man, his eyes squinting as he looked for threats. Each time he saw one, he was too late, the dark figure taking the target down before Robb could get a clear shot. Even when the ghostly fighter appeared out of low lying scrub, a German soldier in his view while a second attempted to take him in the back, Robb was still too slow.

The two posed no threat. A black knife cut through skin and bone as easily as air, the handle going from right hand to left in order to sink deeply into German throat. A pivot, a duck to avoid an attempted rifle butt to the head and that knife arched up, again in the right hand, and took the soldier between the ribs. The German staggered and the black smudge pushed forward, driving the dying man backwards. A twist of the knife and a kick of the foot had the attacker using the German as a human shield, bullets biting into his back as the rest of the German troop opened fire.

“Cover him!” Robb yelled again.

Robb’s men opened up fire, cutting the German’s down where they stood. In the confusion of the surprise attack, they had apparently forgotten the group of United Kingdom soldiers that they had pressed and dug in across the field. Theon and the others seemed all too happy to remind them of their presence.

Robb kept his finger on the trigger but never squeezed, his eyes following the path the lone man created.

The dying German fell from the knife and hit the snow, blood running almost as fast as his killer. Trees hindered Robb’s view as the man ran, jumping over obstacles and skirting around shrubs. He was so fast, zigzagging to avoid the spray of gunfire while slashing that dull blade over throats and through faces. Once, twice, three times he struck at the one man, cutting him open from cheek to neck, neck to shoulder and shoulder to stomach. The knife finished the job by driving home through the man’s eye. The German soldier stumbled back with the force and the lone attacker kept pushing before using his leg to kick the body off of his blade.

Then his head snapped forward as someone managed to land a blow to the back of his skull. Robb felt his breath hitch in his throat, his heart skipping a beat and then skipping a second. His fingers locked up and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. He couldn’t get a shot. Their man was in the way, the enemy shielded from Robb’s position.

“Fuck,” Robb cursed. Theon shuffled beside him, his feet digging into the snow as he repositioned his gun.

“I can’t clear the shot,” Theon muttered, apparently feeling the same anxiety as Robb.

“Don’t try if you can’t,” Robb ordered, the words a little snappier than they should have been. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Fists swung, elbows lashed out and legs kicked up snow as boots hit home. They were evenly matched, each of them attacking and blocking as they scuffled across the field. The black knife fell to the ground as Robb saw their man take a snapping scissor blow to the arm.

Robb chewed his lip until he tasted blood and peered down his rifle’s sight. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, chanting the words over and over as if the other man could hear. “Come on. Either take the target down or get outta the way.”

The black shadow smashed his fist into the German’s stomach, driving him back but the shock only lasted a moment. The German’s fist sailed through the air in kind, catching his opponent square in the jaw. The man wheeled backwards, incorporating the force of the blow into a pivot; Robb saw two things. One was the way his ally swiped his hand across his boot and the other was that he had taken three good steps to the left, slowly starting to expose his adversary. A flash of silver showed that he was armed again yet as he rose, he stopped, face to face with the barrel of an enemy pistol. He paused and Robb could see the heaving rise and fall of his chest; could see the way he panted for breath as his exhales materialized themselves in the air.

It was a frozen moment in time; a stand off between two men. The black was caught like a deer in the headlights, silver blade in hand and bloody knife at his feet and yet target out of reach. Bodies littered the ground around him and the enemy soldier’s arm shook as he levelled the gun and took aim.

Robb shot the man before he had time to pull the trigger.

It wasn’t a clean shot and sure wasn’t a killing hit, but his target had been nothing but a sliver. It was enough though. It gave their man the time he needed to duck the gun, scoop his favourite blade off the ground and then, using his left hand, drive that knife home upwards from under the man’s chin.

Blood gushed and bubbled at the German’s mouth and he fell to the ground the moment that knife was wrenched free.

“Thank fuck,” Robb whispered. Sweat was running across his brow despite the icy conditions and he kept his clammy hands wrapped around his gun to hide the fact that they were shaking.

Lifting his head, he looked across the battlefield just as the black smudge of a soldier turned to look in the direction of his saving bullet. Dark eyes locked with Robb’s and Robb felt that uneasy pressure finally lift off his chest. The man nodded his thanks for the aid and knelt to wipe the blade of his knife clean on the uniform of the dead German soldier. The sliver of silver disappeared back into the top of his boot.

Robb still couldn’t move; it was a struggle enough to breathe and concentrate when Theon said something about that being the end of it. Robb ignored him and waited, watching as that solo fighter stood slowly, wiped blood from his mouth and looked around the field.

“All clear,” the man yelled as he shifted his weight, his voice ringing strong and assertive. Slowly Robb rose, his gun still at the ready and his eyes flicking across the horizon. Nothing moved. Nothing but the white fur that draped around the lone soldier’s shoulders and the curls of his hair that blew in the breeze.

“Good fight, Ghost,” Grenn yelled and Robb heard Pyp cheer again. He ignored them just as much as he had ignored Theon and picked his way across the field.

That blur of black, the lone ranger who had just liberated them from their holed up position stood panting in a sea of bodies and pink slush. His chest heaved up and down, a slight cough coming every now and then and when Robb reached him, he saw the way the other’s tongue carefully poked out to lick at his freshly split lip.

They called Sergeant Jon Snow ‘ _Ghost_ ’ for the most part. Something about it seemed to fit. ‘ _Snow_ ’ or ‘ _Ghost_ ’; silent, cold, bleak and fucking deadly. Ranger, sniper and all around ninja as Theon liked to put it, Snow had picked up the ways of the Commandos easily and quickly, marking him as the youngest in the team that lead _Operation Winterfell_ across the Soviet boarder and into the North of the USSR. He was part of their No. 62 Commando force guide. Better known as the _Small Scale Raiding Force_ or even the _Red Indians_ , they were the best of the best, trained to manoeuvre undetected behind hostile lines and sabotage enemy operations.

In this case they were there to get what remained of Eddard’s Marauders out of enemy territory and back to home soil.

“Where are the others?” Robb finally asked. He wanted to ask a whole lot more – was Jon ok, was he hurt, and what the fuck was he thinking going out there alone – but he held his tongue, sticking to basic tactical reports. Jon looked sick, pale and warn and the splatters of blood and quickly forming bruises across his face accentuated that. He didn’t make eye contact with Robb; something Robb noticed straight away.

“They’re not coming.” Robb felt Jon’s words like a hammer, his mouth silently opening and closing as the other man bent to the ground and started rummaging through the dead soldiers pockets. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes which he committed to his own pockets and a handful of joined rifle rounds. He tossed them up in the air, never looking to see if Robb was paying attention. Robb snatched them up before they began their decent.

Robb watched silently, tucking the bullets away for later use and remaining quiet as Jon shoved a cigarette between his lips and sparked up his lighter.

The Commandos had circled back, silent as ghosts in the coming winter, to try and find the roots of the German resistance. They’d left earlier that day when the first bullets had cut up both earth and skin and they hadn’t been seen since. All the while, the Germans had continued to push and it had left Robb with a sinking feeling in his heart that something bad had happened to the 62 force.

Apparently he had been right.

“Benjen?” Robb asked in disbelief. Jon merely shook his head, his eyes red and not quite focused as he stood. He blew out a long puff of smoke. Benjen was the leader of the Commando squad, the Sergeant Major and he and Jon mirrored Robb and Ned. Fathers in everything but name; mentors, older brothers and comrades.

“Took steel on the retreat.” Jon rubbed at the back of his neck, a movement that Robb knew he did when he was upset and worried. Then he shoved that cigarette back between his lips and sucked it down with all the fervour of a thirsting man being offered water.

Jon had all those little signs that no one else saw. The men of Eddard’s Marauders thought he was cold and heartless and incapable of emotion, but Robb knew better. Snow felt it – life and death and all that bullshit of war – just like everyone else but it was in his training not to let it show. Not unless you knew what to look for and Robb was the only person who did. “I don’t know how, but they seemed to know we were coming,” he said, smoke drifting from his lips as he talked. “It was an ambush.”

Jon’s hand ghosted to his own side, pressing in and rubbing and for the first time, Robb saw the blood. It ran down the length of Jon’s camouflage whites, staining the cloth red from his ribs down to his belt.

“You’re wounded?” It was as much a question as a statement. Robb stepped in closer, his hands reaching for Jon’s wrist, intent on exposing the wound for scrutiny.

“It’s just a scratch,” Jon said, batting at the hand. Robb tried again and met the same resistance. “Really. Bullet graze. Nothing stuck. Just a cut.”

“I want it seen to nonetheless,” Robb ordered. Jon just nodded and muttered something about ‘later’ under his breath.

“Captain!” Umber’s voice floated across the field; Robb only turned his head to it when Jon did the same. The hulking man was standing next to a tree, his head shaking wearily as his eyes stayed locked on Jory. The other man was on the forest floor, his arms and legs spread and his chest still. Gendry’s knees sunk into the earth above Jory’s head, a wet cloth in his hands that had turned pink with blood.

“Jory?” Snow asked, already moving forward. Robb followed, his eyes on Jon’s back. Ice crunched under Robb’s heavy ammunition boots while Jon passed silently, the lightweight rubber soled shoes that all Commandos wore allowing him to move without a sound.

“Eddard is dead. Jory took a bullet to the stomach trying to drag him back.” Jon’s step faltered at the words, the weight of the death of their leader pushing his shoulders down. Hell, even the tendrils of smoke that twisted from his lit cigarette seemed to stop midair. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck again before he resumed his stride and Robb knew that he had filed that crushing information away to be dealt with later.

Jon sunk to his knees in the thick snow, his hands scrambling to undo the buttons closing one of the pockets in his pants. Wordlessly the rest of Robb’s man gathered. Pyp came first, Grenn loud and heavy as he followed in his footsteps. Rast and Theon travelled as one, Theon tapping the shoulders of those he passed, jabbing his chin out in a way that ordered them to keep watch.

“How long?” Jon asked Gendry, the cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth as he spoke around it. His eyes flashed up for only a moment as he pulled a syringe out of the opened pocket. Gendry used his arm to wipe at his own brow, a deep set frown pulling his features into a knot around his nose. Robb could see the stress there, building behind his eyes and stealing the words his mouth tried to say.

Gendry wasn’t the most talkative of people at the best of times. Put him in a tricky situation and there was hardly another man that Robb would trust so wholly. He acted on instinct and shied away from nothing, but put him in a tricky situation that involved Snow or one of the other 62’s talking to him and Gendry was as good as mute and dumb.

It was Greatjon that replied, Gendry’s mouth opening and closing like a fish as he looked anywhere but at Jon. “Took the bullet three hours past. Heart stopped a few minutes ago. There’s no hope; he’s dead.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Jon snapped. Robb watched as he extinguished the still smouldering butt of his smoke. He pressed it into the ground by his knee, summoning up a hiss of steam as fire melted the snow and then the water doused the flame. Once done he used his mouth to yank at the fingers of his glove, pulling his right hand free and exposing it to the biting cold. Jon pushed his fingers up against Jory’s throat, moving and prodding in search of a pulse. He then moved his hand over Jory’s mouth and nose. It looked like he was trying to smother him but Robb knew he was searching for the feel of air being drawn in and exhaled.

Snow wasn’t their medic; not by a long shot. They’d lost their medic four days ago; a bullet through the back of the head made it pretty obvious that they were alone medically from now on. But Snow had always been the stand-in, the one with the smarts and the knowhow to patch up wounds. He’d also been the one to tell it to people straight. He wasn’t afraid to tell someone they were being a cry baby and to suck it up and deal just as he wasn’t afraid to break the news of impending death to someone who was royally fucked.

With the medic dead, Benjen gone and Jory the one bleeding, it left them with Jon and no one seemed game enough to question his actions.

Robb watched as Jon lent down, sniffed at the wound and made a humming sound deep in the back of his throat.

Lifting his head back up, Snow had a scowl across his face. It made him look older than he really was; like a man and less like a boy not yet out of his teens. Robb watched as Snow shot Umber a nasty look, all the while using his teeth to yank the cap off the syringe. Robb eyed the needle; a seven gauge hypodermic head and beside him, Theon shuffled. Jon spat the plastic needle cover at Umber’s feet.

“There’s always hope.” And then he slammed the needle downwards with all the strength of someone trying to cleave a person clean in two. The point pierced through canvas and thermals, penetrating leather before sliding through skin. It didn’t even pause, didn’t tangle and graze off rib bone; a clean path straight to the heart and it made Robb shiver slightly. That was what Jon was trained for, what those black knives of his were made to do. He knew the positions of every vital organ in the human body, how to puncture them without snagging bone and how to deliver death quickly. And slowly, when the time called for it.

His thumb pressed down on the plunger, delivering the liquid. Robb knew what it was; fools syrup. A last desperate win or lose attempt at life. Epinephrine, adrenaline in its purest form delivered direct to the heart by intracardiac injection.

Jon lent down, his ear pressing to Jory’s chest; his teeth nibbled on his bottom lip as he waited, not at all concerned about the way Jory’s blood seeped into his hair. The rest of the men were silent, Robb looked at each of them in time, taking in weary faces smudged with dirt and mud and hands that shook in the cold.

“Jon,” Robb said gently. It had been a hard day. They’d all seen and done things that they hadn’t been expecting and the loss of their leader and his right hand man was a blow difficult to bear. Robb was even sure that Jon had seen worse this day. A team of six elite cut down to a sole survivor in the space of one ambush; Robb had seen it in the way Jon eliminated the enemy, all knives and multiple strikes. The No. 62 Commando force were picked for their speed and silence; they used knives instead of guns; they still shot people but only when they had to. They were the blade in the darkness and the shadow in the enemy camp. They struck once and it killed; a puncture through the ribcage, a swipe of a hidden knife across the throat. They didn’t hack and chop, they didn’t engage in open hand to hand combat as Jon had done moments before.

But this false sense of hope, of resurrecting the dead, was not helping any of them.

“Shhh,” Jon hissed, his eyes closing as he pressed his ear tighter against the folds of Jory’s clothing. Robb sighed, his eye twitching as he fought the want to just grab Jon by his fur pelt and drag him upwards. It was true that Jon, technically speaking, didn’t have to take his orders. He was not part of their squad; an outside agent with his own orders and agenda, but at times like this he was still the junior both in age and rank – not even a commissioned officer – and it was not good to have him defying orders so blatantly in front of the rest of the troops.

Robb was about to say as much when a smile split Jon’s face. He sat up, wiped his blood covered cheek on his shoulder and then slammed his fist into Jory’s chest, full strength and violent.

Jory gasped out loud, his whole body jerking and Robb was pretty sure that Theon jumped back at least two steps. His eyes snapped open as his head lifted off the ground.

And then he sunk back, his body going limp and his eyes closing once again. Yet his chest rose and fell with steady rhythm and his dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as if taken by bright dreams.

When he was able to peel his eyes off his dead commanders most trusted companion, Robb saw Snow wipe at his mouth, removing the last of Jory’s blood while staring bitterly up at Umber.

“Carry him,” Jon said, the words holding the weight of an order he wasn’t authorized to give.

“We’re moving out,” Jon continued, his feet twisting in the slush as he rose. His eyes settled on Robb then. It was the first time he had held his gaze since the conclusion of the fight and Robb resisted the urge to shiver. There was something in those eyes, or something missing even, that froze Robb to the core. “There is a village two klicks from here. We need to make it by nightfall.”

Robb nodded, breaking eye contact and turning to his men. He was in charge, Jon wasn’t, but right now he was willing to go on faith. If the last remaining survivor of the 62’s told them they were moving, then they were moving.

“You heard him. Collect up and get ready to move.”

*****

**Part II Preview**

*****

“Listen up,” Captain Robb Stark said, his finger tracing a line across a section of map on the makeshift table. His eyes looked hollow in the firelight. Jon sat himself down on the floor, his legs crossing under him as he pulled the shirt from his shoulder. He was there simply because Robb had asked him to be yet that didn’t quell the sensation of not being welcomed by the others. Theon especially. The Second-Lieutenant had something against Jon that Jon had never been able to figure out. The more he thought on it, the more he didn’t want to know.

“This is the situation. Operation Winterfell worked, we can be proud of that, but it is nothing but a ripple right now. The Germans are advancing; word has it,” he waved his arm towards the radio beside him. As if in response the device let out a crackling sound and a voice carried, the man muffled in volume but Jon clearly heard the word ‘Moscow’. “They are marching on Moscow. Skirmishes have broken out all across the borders of the USSR.”

“Do we have new orders to engage?” Theon asked. He moved in to stand on the right of Robb – his rightful place – and folded his arms over his chest.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so thought I would get some of these out now, before we get too far into all this insanity.
> 
> \+ I just want to say one important thing; this story is talking about war, obviously, and it is from the POV of one side. It gets harsh and horrible and dirty and so of course there is going to be a lot of slander towards the other side. The Germans are painted in a pretty bad light. I will also point out that I am from German heritage, so if anyone does take any offense to some of the things that happen in this story, keep it to yourselves. Of course, crying offense as I beat the hell out of your favourite characters is perfectly acceptable. ;)
> 
> \+ I have had to screw around with cannon a lot for this. I am keeping it as close as possible, but obviously they can’t all be related. I believe it is actually against military regulation to have brothers and fathers and sons in the same unit. So keep that in mind. Robb and Jon are not even half brothers in this, and Eddard and Benjen are no relation at all either.
> 
> \+ I also had to fiddle with ages. I wanted Robb to be a lot higher in command but still a young commander so I picture him about 21 or 22. Jon I still see as about 17 or 18.
> 
> \+ Not too sure how long all this will be. I have everything but the last scene written (still working on that) but it’s length (and LJ’s posting restrictions) decides if I need an extra chapter break or not. It will either be 8 or 9 chapters, 10 if I add in a scene in the middle that I am thinking about. I’ll try and post on the same day every week.
> 
> As always I accept marriage proposals, bouquets of roses, diamonds, or much easier, comments. ;)


End file.
